Of Loyalty and Valor
by Anna-Salem
Summary: Grima doesn't die; in fact, he is seeking redemption. How you ask? By fighting in the Battle of Pelennor Fields.
1. Default Chapter

"Of Loyalty and Valor" Rated: PG-13 (Violence and Suggestive Themes) Summary: After the final confrontation with Saruman, Grima does not die. Instead, he seeks redemption the only way he knows how; by fighting in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Author's Notes: This fanfic is extremely AU. I felt that Grima deserved another chance. His story just wasn't finished...  
  
Sunlight. It had been so long since he'd seen the sun. Orthanc had been a cruel, desolate place; so full of despair and horrid memories. The stones had been stained black by the treachery of all who resided within the tower.  
  
The road from Isengard was a welcome relief. Since his arrival at the tower he'd wanted nothing more than to escape. He remembered a time when Orthanc was surrounded by the great Fangorn Forest, its gleaming white pillar stretching into the sky. But the forests slowly gave way to Saruman's "fires of industry." It burned, and with each felled tree, the tower became darker, until nothing remained but charred rocks and malice.  
  
Grima straightened. He'd been riding Maenor, his black steed, for many miles. All of his joints ached from the long journey; yet there was still so far to go. It had been quite a departure for him. He'd had to slip past the guards; two orcs, nasty creatures. It was important for him to make a stealthy escape; he had left much ruin in his wake. But those thoughts were not welcome in his head. Grima wanted only to think of the bright sunlight that cascaded down upon him, the beauty of the rolling plains and moss-covered boulders; the country he'd grown up in. It was also a country in which he was not welcome.  
  
Though the day was cool, the rider was warm under his night-black clothing. He was layered in worn velvets, his long black cloak billowed behind him. Pale hands gripped the reigns of the steed. Grima wasn't a skilled horseman, despite being raised in Rohan. The majestic animal slowed to a trot as it crested a hill. Not far in the distance was Edoras, the Golden Hall perched at the very top, overlooking all the land. He inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet air of his homeland.  
  
Homeland? He scoffed to himself. I have betrayed this place. I have forsaken my people. The horse seemed to sense his unrest, and halted at the top of the hill. As Grima looked on, the Great Bell at the center of the proud city gave three booming tolls. A second war had come to the people of Edoras, and Grima knew that this one would far surpass the battle at Helm's Deep; the battle he'd had a hand in...causing the tidal wave that would aid the downfall of all of mankind. 


	2. Changes

A/N: Thank you for the comments. They're encouraging!  
  
It wasn't a safe place to halt, but Grima couldn't tear himself away from the splendor of Edoras. Maenor stood there for quite some time before Grima finally realized that he was in clear view of any scouts who might have been on the lookout. And in this troubled time he was sure there would be many.  
  
He cooed something to the horse, and it resumed a steady pace, though this time they headed south of Edoras. There was a tiny village that he knew of, not much more than a few houses and a tavern, where he could stop and rest. Perhaps people would not recognize him.  
  
It was true; Grima had changed, both physically and mentally. Since he'd been freed from Saruman's power, he had felt the change more clearly than if he'd have looked in any mirror. His mind was not crowded with thoughts of power and desire, choking him so that he couldn't breathe. Instead, he savored the things around him, just as he had done when he was a boy. Things didn't seem so dreary, his life wasn't filled with clouds of hate and envy. And as he rode toward the little village, Grima took note that he felt stronger than he had in many years; he wasn't the feeble man he had become working under Saruman. His breathing came easier, he could see more clearly, and he managed to stand upright when he walked; the pain in his back had almost disappeared completely. Grima could actually feel the blood pulsing through his veins.  
  
Maenor trotted along. Needing to feel the wind rushing past him, Grima slapped the reigns, sending the horse bolting across the plains of Rohan. What a feeling! Exhilarating, almost forbidden to someone like him; someone who'd done so much wrong.  
  
I will make it up, Grima promised, I will undo my wrongs.  
  
The pair rushed past the road that led to the gates of Edoras, opting instead for a weather-beaten path that forked from it. They followed this path until nightfall, where they stopped for a rest and something to eat. Grima reached for one of two satchels. He grabbed the one that contained his food supply, some money, and some items of Saruman's that he could barter. The second was filled with some clothing that he'd stolen as a disguise. Many people would recognize his robes, so he had brought some roughly-hewn peasant wear. Perhaps he could pass as a Haradrim, come from the south seeking new trade. Perhaps...  
  
He awoke to the nudge of Maenor. It wasn't yet day break, but Grima knew that he had to prepare for the last few miles of his journey. A bit of skill was required in order to not bring too much attention to himself. That would be the challenge.  
  
Dressing in the peasant clothing, he also tied his long, inky hair at the nape of his neck with some leather. There was a stream not far from where he and his horse had rested, so he filled his pouch with water, and splashed some onto his face. A little pool collected near the edge of the stream. Curious, Grima crouched by the still water, and peered at his reflection. The man he saw before him was so different than the man he'd been for many years. In place of a tired, pallid face, was a face that was filled with new hope. There were no dark circles under his eyes. His eyes! Deep blue eyes, the both of them, ones that had given him trouble since his service to Saruman. Blind, had he been, because of that wizard. Seeing this reflection, Grima smiled, something he hadn't done for a long time. 


	3. Arriving in Aramil

A/N: *Warlady*: How silly of me! Of course it is Haradrim. I guess I just didn't really think about it. Thanks for the heads-up! (Oh, and you wrote the lovely fic "Redemption of the Dark Ones." It is one of my all-time favorites, and inspired me to write this fic.)  
  
Grima placed his old clothing into the satchel. Maenor stomped a hoof in anticipation, as if he were anxious to get to the village as well. After loading the satchels and mounting the horse, the pair set off again down the narrow path. The day was cool, some puffy white clouds hung low in the sky. The trees began to grow more thickly; he knew he was nearing the edge of Rohan. Nestled amidst the dense forest growth was Aramil, the small village he sought.  
  
Children were playing in the street, and Grima took care not to trample them. The homes that surrounded him were crude, with thatched roofs and holes that spat smoke. Stopping Maenor at a nearby inn, he carefully led the horse into a stable. After paying the stableboy a coin, he ventured into the darkened tavern. Men with thick, straw-colored beards sat at the bar, sipping their ale and telling stories. A few serving wenches bustled to and fro, filling mugs with frothing liquids.  
  
A warm ale might do me quite nicely, Grima imagined. He took a seat at a table near the back of the poorly-lit room, taking care to position his belongings on the seat next to him. Perhaps he could hear some news.  
  
A buxom blonde woman came to his table, a flirtatious smile on her fleshy face. He politely asked for an ale. She nodded and returned with a mug that was overflowing with the amber drink. Concentrating on the ale, he tried to relax.  
  
What would become of him? He had no home, no means of income. Grima didn't belong anywhere. All he had was a troubled past, oratory skills matched by no other, and a heavy heart. Before he could sink deeper into contemplation, a man's cheery gossip caught his attention.  
  
"I'm thinking about riding out to join them," the man boomed, his voice reaching every corner of the tavern.  
  
"The Riders of Rohan? I'd like to see you try," another man jested.  
  
The first man, not the least offended, continued on. "And why not? They need all the men they can get. There's to be a war. . .A war between we men, and those forces of darkness that have swept over us."  
  
"We have fought. . .Rohan has lost many a man to the armies of Mordor. Helm's Deep was enough for me," the man who replied rolled back his sleeve to reveal a long, jagged wound. "This scar is all I need."  
  
Several men grunted in agreement with the wounded man. Grima listened intently to the conversation, hoping for some details on where the Riders were to meet.  
  
"Well, I, for one, am not going to sit about drinking ale while the men of my country ride off to war. And when the Riders of the Riddermark meet at the camp outside of Edoras, I am sure to be there with them," and with that, the man set down his mug, tossed a few coins to the barkeep, and stormed off, apparently to war. The other men merely laughed.  
  
Grima had abandoned his country once, but he was not about to do it again. Since his freedom from Saruman, he'd had time to reflect on what it was that he was meant to do. His purpose was to redeem himself. There was no asking for forgiveness. No, he would have to forgive himself first.  
  
He paid the blonde wench, then rushed out to where Maenor was penned. The other fellow, the valiant one, stood in a nearby pen, loading his simple brown horse with some packs. Grima studied the man. He was big and lumbering, with a thick golden beard, and tosseled blond hair. He looked used to hard labor and riding. Grima approached him with a polite nod.  
  
"Good sir, I couldn't help but overhear you in the tavern. I see that you are off to war, then? May I accompany you on your journey? For I, too, am joining in the battle."  
  
The large man nodded gruffly at Grima, "You have a way with words. I would be honored to travel with you, but before I do, what is your name, sir?"  
  
Grima hesitated. He dare not reveal his true identity; there was much he had done to stain his name. "Eothem. And you?"  
  
"Forneth," he grinned, his full beard pulled aside, unveiling a gaping mouth with but a few teeth. The men finished readying their animals, and mounted. "That's a beautiful creature you got there, Eothem. I should be so lucky to own a horse like that in my lifetime."  
  
The men rode out of Aramil, taking the same dirt path Grima had traveled only hours before. It seemed strange to be heading back to Edoras; he had just arrived in Aramil, and already his destiny was leading him back to the land of the horse-lords. Not only was he riding beside a man he had just met, but he was being guided to almost certain doom. 


	4. A Gathering Army

The two rode in silence, gazing off into the distance. Grima was sore from his almost constant travel, but he dared not show it to the man next to him. Thick, muscled arms stretched from under the man's dusty brown tunic, and calloused hands clenched the horses reigns. It wasn't as if Grima didn't trust Forneth; the man was obviously very simple. But Grima was very much unused to pleasant company, and had no idea how to treat the other man. It was Forneth who struck up conversation.  
  
"Stunning horse you've got. Does it have a name?"  
  
Grima answered, "Maenor."  
  
"Maenor. Beautiful name for a beauty of a horse. Does it mean anything?"  
  
The question seemed strange. Why would have horse have a name that meant anything? It was nothing more than a useful beast. He shook his head.  
  
Forneth grinned. It was a gesture that, Grima learned, he did a lot. "No meaning? See this animal here? When I was out looking for a horse for myself, I almost overlooked this hunk of meat. But do you know what sold him to me? His name: Rokko Apsa. It's Elven for War Lord."  
  
Grima couldn't help but suppress a giggle. The man was so simple! He wasn't sure if he should tell him that the name wasn't Elven for War Lord, but instead for Pack Mule. Not wanting to be rude to his only companion, he merely nodded. Forneth grinned, again, and patted Rokko Apsa neatly between the shoulder blades.  
  
The sun was setting over the plains of Rohan, and as the two weary riders approached, the scene before them took Grima's breath away. There, stretched across the plains, was a long line of riders, all armed and ready for battle. More were arriving from the north, and still more from the east. All were gathering in preparation for the trek to Mordor. . . the final battle.  
  
Unlike the great army that Saruman wielded, this group accepted their fate with a grim sense of reality. They knew there would be a great chance that they would not return to see their families. And yet, they would ride, and they would fight.  
  
Grima smiled at this thought, and, turning to Forneth, he said, "Look at them all. I've seen no sight such as this in all my life."  
  
"Aye," came the other man's response, "Gives a man hope."  
  
And so, they rode to meet them. Grima tried his best to shield his face, but no one seemed to notice them, and they fell in with the rest of the steadily growing army. In addition to the gigantic calvary, there was also a vast amount of men on foot, waving banners with the symbol of the Rohirrim; a single, white horse.  
  
Forneth offered to collect their armor and weapons. He told Grima to stay with the horses. It was almost as if Forneth knew that Grima had no prior experience with the handling of swords and such-like. Nevertheless, Grima was grateful that the larger man would carry the armor for him.  
  
When Forneth returned, he slapped Grima roughly on the back, positioned him, and loaded him up with a breastplate, helmet, and shield, all before Grima could say a word.  
  
Forneth chuckled heartily, "I tried to get the smallest they had. You wear a child's armor. But it suits you well." He pulled Grima's sword from its sheath. "I don't suppose you know how to use this?"  
  
Grima grimaced, "How did you guess. . ."  
  
"Well, from the way you dismount your horse, it sort of gave it away. You are supposed to dismount from the left side, my friend."  
  
Smiling sheepishly, Grima took the sword from Forneth and replaced it in the sheath.  
  
"There will be time to learn to fight," Forneth said cheerily, "But now is the time to eat. I'm famished." 


End file.
